


As though it were

by Lavender_Seaglass



Series: And then came the rest [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Siblings, disturbing game imagery, mother-daughter bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Seaglass/pseuds/Lavender_Seaglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the new war, their family has experiences together that are good, bad, and whatever else it is that comes. That includes playing in the sand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As though it were

Being on a ship is novel. For Morgan, as for the rest of the Ylissean royal family, this is the first time so long out at sea. As far as he knows it is such. And why shouldn't it be, when this is now an experience they have together as a family?

Though there's still a war on, and everyone is behaving as such. His father and mother and sister have spent hours with their troops and the handful of sailors Plegia provided them for want of their own trained people to man the hundreds of warships and escorts. There are seafarring lessons to be arranged between Plegians and Ylisseans to keep such an important organ of their army mixed. Words to be learnt—starboard, abaft, gash fanny, stay. There is a stowaway campfollower who is found and dealt with.

When maps are gone over Morgan's allowed to stand at his mother's side to watch and listen. Though it's obvious to him that he isn't getting attention from her, nor is it appropriate to draw any to himself, serious as the atmosphere is. So he excuses himself early from the opulent captain's cabin of their new fleet's flagship. He wanders. He finds himself pacing around the deck, stalking around the deck, finally skulking around the deck.

His growing boredom is intolerable, but the sight of the vast ocean doesn't excite anything, doesn't whisper to him promises of adventures authored by a young mind. The horizon holds no secrets; emptiness is not seducing to him. The ice fields they are passing are a little better, though, for they evoke in him some sense of phantasy—beneath the roiling ocean the great bulks of the glaciers loom deep, deep, deep, to where even light cannot reach. There the darkness holds interminable sway. Morgan can't imagine that, down there, there is anything but nothing. And the abyss is capricious, it is liable to stretch up and take them at any time. It raises up and up, something is coming to swallow them—

He shifts to the darkness in his own mind. Dizzying, the amount of unknown space in himself. It leaves him with too many directions to wander. The further he reaches one way, the more he displaced he becomes. His mental map has been scourged, a whole childhood expunged. He has heard adults saying too that childhood memories are the strongest, the ones that last longest.

And yet who's to say that his memories won't return to him eventually? Or, one day they may all be stumbled upon at once. Stranger things have happened. Like time travel for one, or his case of highly selective amnesia.

When he tries to force memories there is a thing in his darkness that stirs. He prods and prods and prods, and from the blackness manifests colours that tremble and burst behind his eyes until an image begins to resolve itself. It's his mother, vividly.

He forces for something it again. He wills himself to remember sideways, _for someone is standing at his mother's side._ Quite abruptly Lucina materialises. And it cannot be right, for his sister in this memory isn't as she is now, he's remembering her as two years older than she should be. She's also dressed in a white silk, taffeta, or linen dress—some kind of material that's light and soft but not diaphanous. She has her hair bound up with ringlets draping over her ears and neck, and the long gloves she wears match her finche.

_I don't remember a ball_ , he thinks, as his memory begins to dance in front of him. His false sister moves daintily, more insubstantial than a human should, as helpless as a snowflake floating in a draught.

He tries again.

And again.

This time a stutter, a glow, a flash—of Falchion? He can't remember if it was blue or silver.

Morgan then opens his eyes. His head thrums as a pressure pulses at his temples. With his sleeve he wipes away the brine that has speckled his face in the moments he has been working in his mind.

“But I obviously exist,” Morgan says to the sea. “I existed before this. Definitely.” He nods his head and thinks of something definite like circles, which have a reliable ratio and other pleasant properties—though, if he's thinking about it and being honest about it, they have no end or beginning that one can discern, but his own memories definitely have a beginning and shouldn't have end, and yet he can't even tell where they began.

Suddenly, manically, he whacks his head against the ship's sturdy railing. He has at it again, and again. Still nothing has been dislodged, but he _can't_ be certain that this won't work. It's doing something at least, because between rams his vision is littered with dazzling lights that form into patterns that could be a secret code. There's a ringing that's trying to speak to him.

He's throwing himself back into the rail for a fifth time when a strong voice and pair of hands seize him. His body jerks but goes nowhere. He feels like a wretched straw doll, his limbs quite useless to him for anything.

“Morgan, what are you doing?” Lucina cries from somewhere above him. He has the impression for a moment that she's omnipresent.

Dazed, he replies, “trying to remember. It's not working too well.” He raises a hand to his head to try and quell its spinning, and then he's aware of his _hand._ It's disgusting. He grasps at _her_ hands secured around his waist. He's desperate to get them off him, these horrible brittle, pale things.

Lucina holds him tightly. She has been on her knees this whole time.

Horrified, he seeks shelter in his sister. He tries to calm his nausea and splintered sight with measured breaths.

“Morgan, what's wrong?” she asks. She's looking down at him while cradling his back.

“My hands look like sea dollars,” Morgan says, his voice far too plaintive to be joking. He sits still and silent for a moment. “And I feel sick.”

“What were you doing? You shouldn't try to trigger your memories by hurting yourself!”

“No,” he says. He's recovering quickly now and almost cognisant. He pulls away from her. “I wanted to remember you. You were  _ almost  _ in another one of my memories, but the memory was mostly of Mother, and I didn't want to let you go, but you were there too, almost. I was so close to it. I thought I could get it loose enough to get you in there.”

“Memories don't work like that, Morgan,”

No longer shaky, he asks her, “how do you know?”

There's no hesitation.“It's my job to know,” she says to him. For a moment, she squeezes his shoulder. “Hurting your head will only make it worse. You might forget even more.”

“I don't want to forget anything else! Not about Father, not about  _ you _ ,” he says as he embraces her. “I've just started to remember you. And losing any new memories would be unfair.”

“You won't, Morgan. You won't if you treat yourself well.”

“I promise I'll stop hitting my head!” He smiles at her. “Besides, Father didn't really like it anyway. He seemed to disapprove of that part of my operation to remember him.”

“Morgan!” She frowns at him. Already it's a gesture of hers that's enough to reprimand him.

“Don't worry! I promised I'll stop. Anyway, do you want to spar with me to help find your sea legs?”

“I don't think that's a very good idea. Why don't we wait for Mother and Father? They can have a look at your head, and then we can take afternoon tea together.”

Smiling, Morgan gets to his feet and waits for her to catch up. “Okay! Let's watch for whales while we wait!”

He's off to the railing before she can reply. She watches him warily and closely for any signs of concussion, but he seems fine. He points out a group of whales not long after. One blows up a spout of water and Morgan raspberries back at it. He tries his whale call on them too, earnestly. As though it might have worked.

 

.

 

Morgan is too young to be conscripted. Even if he can't properly verify the child's true age in Morgan's case, Chrom would never in good conscious take such a boy off the streets and into war. Donnel isn't an exception, he's technically of age and a proven fighter.

Though Morgan is, like the rest of his family, more capable than he himself is aware. He's a fighter and a mage to boot like his mother not to mention a budding brilliant tactician too. Lucina keeps him by her side as they attack the brain of the Valmese fleet. Together they work in concert like symbiotic forces of nature.

She defends, and he defends.

She launches a flurry of swings, and he launches a flurry of spells.

The one thing he cannot do is sail into enemies with the same smooth ease as she does; it's a practised disregard for danger he does not have. Each strike originates from a fresh renewing of her mind to combat the reflex to run. She picks her target or her target picks her, and she falls into stance, and she launches herself with a guided focus and a glinting foible. She and her sword glitter.

The abrasive wood of the deck keeps her from sliding too much.

When the time to jump ship comes she's with him. Her sword's still dripping red as she looks at him to nod and confirm that he understands that they are doing this. In the trice right before the leap, he slips his hand into hers and yells, “Gironomo!” for the both of them.

 

.

 

But she cannot protect him from the sight that follows. Or the sounds, or the smells; she cannot control his sensations. This Morgan who doesn't remember the war. This Morgan, who probably hasn't experienced the perfect destruction of the human race, has not smelt burning humans before.

Around them, the sea is aflame.

He complains about breathing—the torrent sucks all the air out of the area, the hot wind in a firestorm, is useless for clearing smoke and in fact quite dangerous to his lungs. They cannot sail away from the site fast enough, he says. And though he praises his mother's tactical vision, he's haunted by its realisation as a nightmare wrought in flames.

 

...

 

The miniature celebration is held at the largest tavern in the city. Though the seizure of Port Valm is only a first small victory in an endless series that now spans indefinitely before them, there's a reason for good cheer. They will be joining with rebel forces. They will not be invaders but liberators.

So, it seems, they are welcomed.

The Princess of Chon'sin graciously accepts their help at a good speech at dinner. Their location does not matter tonight, she says. No matter where one stands in this land at this moment, there is cause for celebration.

The princess returns then to her seat at Chrom's left hand. His wife is sitting to his right.

He does not get the time to properly address Robin. Between his own conversation with Say'ri, her conversation with the Valmese citizen to her right, and the rest of the noise in this well-lit place, he cannot inquire about her repeated trips to the washroom. She makes a show of touching each dish and each drink. Then she tries not to make a show of politely disappearing for minutes to powder her nose. Or her face, or her cheek, whatever it is that needs retouching. The fact is that she retreats from the bright atmosphere at least fourteen times.

After a while he notices that she's no longer leaning in towards her conversation partner. This is both a sign and a symptom of her state. Tired, she's becoming antsy. Finally she asks him if she might not take Morgan and prepare him for bed, and Chrom's more than willing to excuse her.

Eased a little, he's aware that his daughter slips away in pursuit of them.

 

.

 

Chrom follows not much later. He excuses himself once the alcohol is brought out. Drinking this late at night is just not for him, he says, making sure to offer a contrite bow of his head before the affable teases are laid out. He's practically a daudering old man, he is a father. He also has older children to set an example for.

Outside, Chrom is struck by the cool, calm darkness.

Frederick, ever vigilant for his liege, attends him. Though he keeps his distance when Chrom spots Lucina alone on the seawall and goes over to where she is.

She's sitting with her legs drawn to her chest and her head settled upon her knees. With one hand she scratches the ear of one of the city's myriad stray cats. It has probably escaped from some ship or another. Cats are good luck on a voyage, some say. They are also known to keep under control rodents that scuttle in the recesses of nearly every ship. Chrom notices that the two of them, female and feline, sit relaxed. But in a second either could be poised to strike. Lucina has changed back into her Hero-King raiment, and Falchion's scabbard rests at her side. It's chape gleams.

In the night, his daughter's blue hair is a precious, profound black. Down on the beach beyond her it is easy to make out Robin and Morgan absorbed in some kind of game. His attention is drawn then to Morgan making circular markings in the sand.

She moves to stand when he comes near her. “Hail, Father! Good evening.” He gestures to her and sits down right by her.

“It's a beautiful evening, isn't it?” he asks for no particular reason.

“Yes. I don't think I've ever enjoyed salty air this much. The scent of the ocean is cleansing.”

He agrees. Then, a silence for thinking. “Why don't you go and join them?”

“They're playing at a strategy game,” Lucina explains, as though that's reason enough. Then, after a few seconds more, she adds, “It's a little like chess, I assume.”

“You're certainly no fool when it comes to strategy, Lucina.”

“Yes, but—”

“Listen to me,” Chrom says, and he leans in towards to her. Quite suddenly his tone is conspiratorial and that compels Lucina to draw closer.“Even though you have your Mother's brains, you don't need them to outwit her. I've beaten her plenty of times. Don't tell her this, but the best feint to fool her with is no feint at all. If you don't play with a plan you'll almost certainly win.”

“Father!” she says, her voice taut with mock shock and contained mirth. “Is that not cheating?”

“It's a family secret. And don't tell your mother, all right? She would be more than happy to kill me and replace me as head of the army herself if she found out about my 'strategy'. She'd call me an irresponsible commander, among other things.”

“She's so very serious,” Lucina says.

“There are some things that run strong in this family. Sometimes.” He has drawn back from her, but now he is near again to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She fits easily against his side. “You have a streak of it. Though you in particular, I think you got your bearings from your Aunt Emmeryn. She would've loved you.”

“And I her, I pray.”

“She would have been so proud of you,” he says. And though he's sombre as he does, there's such pride in this statement, such familial love, that it sounds like a declaration. It's a beatitude—a blessing bestowed by father unto daughter.

After a while they get up off the wall to join the other half of their family.

 

.

 

Lucina doesn't play the game. Instead Morgan immediately approaches his father and challenges him to a contest of sandcastle construction. Morgan laughs, but Chrom's suddenly serious. Though before they begin, he has Frederick fetch blankets for his wife and daughter.

“And towels for you two? You'll likely end up wet.”

“Whatever you think is necessary, Frederick. I trust your good sense.”

Father and son begin their competition. There's an energy that's summoned by their spirit; Lucina smiles at the lack of royal authority in the hunch of her father's shoulders. She smiles as Morgan digs his moat right up to the base of their father's creation. He will tunnel under it so that it collapses; Chrom's castle is doomed. Currently, Chrom has distracted himself with an intense scouring for seashells.

Morgan's actions aren't fair, surely, but this is just a game. That they are building sandcastles at night doesn't matter either. The point is that they are playing.

Lucina seats herself by her mother once blankets are laid down. Their nearness now creates a tighter intimacy that screens them from the boys' presence. At least for Lucina, she no longer feels compelled to notice them or follow too closely their actions. So she focusses instead on her mother who smiles at her. Her mother's still in her more formal attire from earlier this evening. Such a state of dress still strikes Lucina as remarkable given the war, and how accustomed she has become to the sight of armour. Any normal, non-protective clothing still holds a hint of feckless frivolity.

Her mother's hair is braided and bound, and half her head is covered by a black silk and velvet diadem marked in the middle with a slight demure arch. Lucina has seen that the brocade on the diadem is gold in the light, but out here it appears silver-white. Like many other things out here in the moonlight, it has been reduced to a shade of monotone. She wonders if her own golden diadem pops against her hair when seen in night's chiaroscuro.

“How are you, love?” Robin asks her.

She takes it as an earnest inquiry. “I am well, Mother. It's easier to breathe out here. I feel I've finally caught my breath.”

“Do you know what the worst part is?”

Unbidden, Lucina's mind makes the jump back in time—her mother's thinking about their second to last skirmish. She then reads it in the tense set of her mother's shoulders. Her mother doesn't realise how much feeling she constantly betrays in her posture.

“The culpability?” Lucina tries. She regrets it immediately, though, thinks that this isn't the right thing to say because it could be taken as an accusation. And yet her mother is having an adult conversation with her, isn't she? Something serious? (Lucina still doesn't know how to tell if she's being treated treated as a child or an adult by her young parents. Sometimes it seems to be as both, and  _ that's _ a strangely desperate duality she cannot make sense of.)

Robin shakes her head. “The smell. I can never get used to the _ smell _ .”

_ The smell of burning human flesh,  _ Lucina thinks.  _ What kind of a smell is that to become tolerant of?  _ They exchange a look before Robin stares at her husband and son.

“You would think I could make my own blood cold and steel my heart after everything I've already done. But then I guess that's always been an idiosyncrasy of mine. You know, when I was pregnant with you, I couldn't stand the smell of cooked meat. Not even cooking meat. Your poor father couldn't eat meat whenever we dined together. I think that's why he's been eating so much of it since you were born—again, in this timeline. He has some catching up to do.”

“Really, Mother?” Lucina asks.

“Yes. And it's odd, because one of my first memories is of that bear Frederick hunted. I don't think anything else I've ever tasted has been quite as delicious.”

“When you were—are—“ Lucina stops herself, looking to her mother for some kind of confirmation on what tenses she should use: those appropriate to her mother's sense of time, or those appropriate to her own?

Robin just smiles at her. Encourages her.

“When you were pregnant with Morgan, I don't remember you being sickened by the smell or sight of meat. Though there was something...odd. You had cravings for cloudberries.” (Lucina pauses for a moment, to allow herself time to gauge her mother's reaction. There's no recognition, so she'll explain.) “They're these awful yellow-orange fruit from one of the Feroxi kingdoms.”

“They sound like an expensive frivolity.”

“And absolutely horrible. Please, Mother, don't ever eat them. Morgan is going to acquire a taste for them, and then he is going to find your stash one day and eat too many. For hours he threw up this unnatural neon orange mess. I still pity the maid who had to clean it up.”

At the end of her story, her mother cringes. “I promise I won't. What a boon it is to have a time-travelling daughter who can warn you...uh, against such nasty foolishness.”

Lucina's smiling, but once her reminiscing is ended and her recalled horror abated, there is reality waiting for her. There's their situation. “I don't really know if I should be telling you this,” Lucina says.

“And yet I am glad you have. Don't worry, I'll still have Morgan, orange puke or not.” Robin laughs. “I'm sure there are worse ways he'll come up with by himself to get attention. He's already trying to figure out how to get me to walk into a pitfall. The first one he dug was two meters deep! Can you believe the audacity? I appreciate that he's determined and driven, but by the gods' he's just a little too energetic. I'm glad I'll have him young so that I can keep up. Otherwise I'd always be on my back foot with him!”

“Yes,” Lucina says. And she could reveal more, she could give so much more to her mother, but she is at a loss. Now is such a good moment between them. It could be ruined by mentioning that yes, Robin will be young, and yes she will be there to parent Morgan. But then she will have to mention that Chrom's gone. Or was gone for a time. And that will lead them to other things and places Lucina doesn't want to go. (And anyway, as it is now, their past future separation won't happen. It won't. Her father and mother are together in this war and have been since the very start. This is a difference. It is a change that so far she has managed to make stick.)

Not sure what else to do, she hugs her mother.

Robin embraces her back.

Lucina knows it's not her purpose for coming here, not by a longshot, but here she has the opportunity to make up for so much lost time. For entire swathes of her childhood that, like her adolescence, she was not allowed to have. (She hates herself for thinking it.)

Lucina buries her face in Robin's moon-bright hair. She doesn't realise she's crying, not until her mother whispers in her ear, “my dear, I love you so much.”

 

.

 

But that's not all.

Later into that morning Chrom returns to the beach. It's the same place—their sandcastles are monuments that attest to that—but the place is not familiar. The moon has gone down, the sun is missing, this space is new. He finds her by her solidity: she is a black mass seated on the edge of the surf.

Just a little bit beyond her the waves retreat. On their glassy wake is a sheen of starlight.

He joins her.

“I woke up and you weren't there,” he says. No accusation, nothing but a statement that becomes a segue for her if she wishes to speak.

“I had a nightmare,” she says.

“What was it?”

“Just images. I can't place them.”

He nods. So, not about what she has done. He couldn't stand to have her bear guilt for something he considers done in his sake. This possibility of saddling her with such feelings is not something that's new, but something more probable now, he feels.

And she says, “I think I've had this nightmare before, though. I think. I don't know. It might have been more substantial last time.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She lays her head in the hollow of his neck. “And what of you? No-one really asks how you are.”

He thinks about it. But his mind is closed to so many things, there's too much that requires sifting for the moment that they have before them.

“I'm already tired. And yet we've got so far to go.” He pauses. He rests his head on hers. “I meant what I said earlier. I'm glad that we're tied, and that I have our connection. That I have you.”

“Of course,” she says. “And I am so lucky to have you.”

 


End file.
